


you spoke from midnight, and it's midnight now

by minarchy



Series: the great gdocs clear out of 2016 [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Rating May Change, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:33:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6171148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minarchy/pseuds/minarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliott Caradog remembers being Arthur; he remembers being many people, in many times, but he can't remember why he sent Merlin away, and now he can't seem to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you spoke from midnight, and it's midnight now

**Author's Note:**

> a reincarnation fic that i started in 2011 with the intention of posting it for the merlin big bang, but (unsurprisingly) never finished. in three parts, because i'm never going to get it to the length originally planned. written having only watched season one, and with liberal overuse of various arthurian legends
> 
> rating and warnings to change
> 
> unbeta'd as usual, because i am trash.

     _The words like distant stars that faintly grace_  
_The all-pervading dark of space,_  
_But not meant for the world of men._  
_It's not what we forget_  
_But what was never known we most regret_  
_Discovery of._  
  
_**— Stephen Edgar, Nocturnal**_

Arthur does not remember the first time. What he does remember:

His armour is too hot. The heat of the day has cleared the mist from around Tregalan, which meant that it would be all the better to fight with when Mordred’s forces arrived. He had been worried that the druids would work the weather, twist the fog around themselves like a cloak to shield them from the sight of Arthur’s archers; even Drem will not be able to perceive them enough to get a clear shot.

The burning edge of his gorget is searing against his neck, despite the youth of the day. His leather undershirt no longer has a collar high enough to protect his neck from the metal, having been a causality of a previous engagement two days ago, when their camp had been attacked and Arthur had been forced to fight without his armour on. He regrets not repairing it, now, but the visit to Dinas Emrys had been fraught and fruitless, and had done nothing but stir up unwanted and unhappy memories. Memories that he does not need on his mind heading into battle.

Mordred’s forces are on the run; they had been defeated at every engagement so far, and despite their attempts as guerrilla warfare, this is Arthur’s territory. They are awaiting them, now, the remaining stragglers of a once absolute threat to the stability of Arthur’s new kingdom, Arthur’s forces lining the edges of the cŵm that they would be forced to march through in order to escape the _sauve-qui-peut_ of yesterday.

He rubs a finger around the edge of his gorget, feeling the sweat that has amassed beneath the metal and gathered in the remains of the collar of his undershirt. The day had started out cool, the long march up from the mist-shrouded valley good for getting the blood pumping to numbing fingers and toes; but as the army has moved up the hill, the sun presses down on them like a physical force, bowing the heads of the soldiers and bouncing off the grass ahead of them, blinding them with white-gold-green light. Even Arthur is beginning to lag, now, but he needs to keep up the pace for his men, so that they do not see their king falter and lose heart themselves. They will need all their courage, today, despite their advantage.

They are all infantry; the Druids have spells that can cause horses to bolt and buck and craze, turning on their beloved masters and stampeding across the field, mindless of friend or foe. Also, Arthur wants to face his enemy on his own two feet, solid and steady and dependable on his kingdom’s ground. He wants to be able to look Mordred in the eye as he kills him.

His main regret, he thinks, as he stands at the head of his army, facing the druids and their allies across the bowl of Tregalan, was sending Merlin away. He had intended to bring him back, once his father had passed on and Arthur was King and could repeal the laws against magic - but by that point, it was already too late. Merlin was already lost to him. Gwenddolau had lost his life, and Merlin had lost his sense; Arthur supposed the trappings of an oak tree would have seemed like blissful relief following the torment of his broken mind.

He knuckles the plain wooden weight around his neck, remembering his once-manservant and always-friend, and imagining that he can still feel something of Merlin through it. Sunlight flashes off steel from the enemy’s line, and Arthur rallies his troops forward.

They brake the druidic line, despite the earth moving beneath their feet and fire flashing down from the sky; the druids are tired and defeatist by this point, many of them understanding that Mordred can bring them no victory here, not unless he tries to repeat Dwyfan’s history and flood them all out. But Arthur had seen Annwfn, however briefly, and he has no fear of the Land Under The Sea.

Arthur scythes Excaliber, driving all foes before him; the Sword, made for him by Merlin (and it was, perversely, his father who told him this, delirious and raving on his deathbed he spoke of Tristan de Bois), would suffer no harm to it, and it sliced through steel and flesh and bone as easily as butter.

He watches Derfel lift a struggling soldier bodily from the ground and cast him back onto his own side’s spear tips.

“Well thrown!” he hears Gwaine cry, laughing as his sword lifts blood spray high into the air. “Cadarn indeed, Derfel!”

If Derfel replies, Arthur does not hear him; he has sighted his enemy, Mordred standing amid his army, casting spells at the opposition from afar.

“Coward!” he roars, the insult spilling from his lips as he deflects the blows of Mordred’s guard and uses them as defence against the spells flicked from fingertips towards him. “Lose your spells and fight like a man!”

He only just pulls back in time, as a fully-armoured Hengroen charges through the men blocking Arthur from his enemy, complete with Cynwyl gripping his horse’s flanks with his knees as he swung his sword down on both sides.

“I thought you left him at home!” Arthur calls up to him. Cynwyl grins at him, but his eyes are grim and his face is flecked with bloodspray.

“He came of his own accord, Sire,” he says, deep voice rolling across the battle between them. “I could not deny him a final battle.”

This is to be a final battle, then. Arthur can appreciate that, however it comes about. He may be still considered young, but he feels _tired_ , and it is more than just battle-weariness. All he has wanted, ever since he lost Guinevere, ever since he lost Merlin, was to lie down and just _sleep_.

The enemy is routed, and are fleeing away through the cŵm; Arthur gives chase, as does Gwaine, Tristram, Leon, and others whom he feels at his back like the solid, dependable force they have always been, but he has no time to register their faces as they pelt after Mordred.

Arthur sees him turn as they enter the bwlch; he looks triumphant, victorious, wickedly self-eminent, and Arthur does not understand why. He hears Gwaine’s shout of anger as he hurls Excaliber at Mordred. He feels a sense of huge satisfaction as the superior expression gives way to one of horror and fear. He feels his armour burn against his skin as his shoulder his knocked by Leon’s body as he collapses against him, full of arrows, and he looks up at the side of the pass and saw

only the cornicing, softly cream as sunlight streamed through the summer curtains.

“Good morning, Tad-cu,” said a voice, cheerfully, from his bedside. He turned.

“Morgana?” he said, and did not recognise his voice. It was old, rough, Welsh. The girl, dark hair swirling as she darted a swift look towards the doorway, sat on the bed next to him, and took one of his gnarled, wrinkled hands in hers.

“No, Tad-cu. It’s Sîan, remember?”

“Sîan,” he said, slowly, because he did remember, but it was all muddled up with things that did not belong to that life.

“That’s right,” she said, smiling brilliantly at him. “Do you remember who you are?”

He blinked, lost, as his mouth moved to make the sound _Arthur_. But Sîan saw it, and interjected.

“You’re Elliott Caradog. Remember, Tad-cu?”

Yes. That was right. Elliott Caradog. And Sîan was his granddaughter, second child of his daughter Carys. And Carys was his daughter by

“Colletta,” he said, turning and reaching out with old, withered arms for the bedside cabinet, for the photograph of Colletta that he always kept there, hidden and safe from the destructive nature of sunlight. Sîan moved, opened the drawer and took out the photograph, still pristine within its frame. “Colletta,” he whispered, and carefully kissed the glass. “What a fool I’ve become.”

Sîan smiled, quietly, sadly, and kissed him on the cheek. “Mam’s getting breakfast ready, Tad-cu,” she said. “I’ll tell her that you’ll be coming down soon, yeah?”

 

Elliott dressed slowly, but efficiently. He cannot do anything with any great speed, nowadays, but a lifetime in the Army had ingrained itself so into his brain that he is anything but tardy. He propped Colletta upon the cabinet whilst he dressed, and moved her around with him so that he could always see her.

In front of the mirror – the small one, rather than the large one that was resting, dust-sheeted, in the attic, that Colletta had loved and kept so clean he combed his thin, white hair neatly, parting it up to his crown and ensuring it was straight with the length of the comb. He fastened the top button of his shirt and straightened his jumper, before lifting his glasses from the bedside table and putting Colletta away.

“Tad,” was the greeting Carys gave him, as he made it down the stairs – far too proud to admit that they were becoming more than a bit of a struggle – and into the long kitchen. His daughter, tall and fair and always beautiful to him, if not to that _Sais_ that was her husband, smiled at him from her position over the Aga. “Breakfast’ll be on the table in a sec. How’re you feeling this morning?”

“Old,” Elliott grunted, lowering himself carefully into one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. Ioan sniggered from his position opposite Sîan, who poked him with her toe. Elliott could tell, because of the way her weight shifted and her gaze focussed on her elder brother. Ioan, belying his supposedly-adult age of twenty-two, stuck his tongue out at his sister, and suffered a whack from his mother’s spoon for his trouble.

“Eat up, then, Tad,” she said, seating herself opposite Elliott. “You promised Dai that you’d meet him in the park today, remember?”

Elliott grunted in agreement, and watched his daughter shake her head at him in exasperation.

“Well, just don’t get too swept up in your chess games, ie? I want you home for dinner – six o’clock _sharp_.” This last word was directed towards everyone at the table, especially towards Sîan, who had something of a reputation of ignoring the concept of family meals.

 

Sîan offered to walk Elliott to the park, which was the first clue Elliott had that she wanted to talk to him.

They walked side-by-side, with Sîan’s arm through his, but she was the one there for support, in all truthfulness. Luckily, the worst of winter had passed through the valley, now, and it was not so treacherous for him to take to the streets. Still, he was grateful that Sîan was there. Just in case. You could just never tell—

“Easy, Baba!” Sîan was laughing as she caught him and held him upright. She always called him Baba when Carys was not about – it had been her childhood nickname for him, one that her mother had not really approved of once she was old enough to pronounce Tad-cu properly. “You’re going to have to careful, what with all this ice still floating about. You can’t just go gallivanting off and breaking your leg – what would Mam say?”

Elliott grumbled something about ‘not gallivanting anywhere’, but Sîan just continued on her happy rant.

“She’s effing kill me, that’s what. I'd be _dead_ , Baba, and whose fault would it be?”

“Yours,” he said, “for telling your mam in the first place.”

Sîan laughed, tilting her head forward against the sudden wind, and they huddled forward.

“The caff, I think,” Sîan said, abruptly, when the wind gave no sign of letting up. “It’s far too cold for you to go to the park, Baba,” she said, catching his look. “You get you inside, order us some coffee, like, and I’ll call Dai to tell him where we are. I don’t reckon as how he’d’ve got out of the house either, mind. Tabs’d have his skin if he tried to sneak off in this weather.”

“Alright, Tabs?” Elliott heard as he pushed the door open, and felt the warm, foody air rush past him to join with the wind.

“Two coffees, is it, Ell?” Siwan had been working the cafe for as long as Elliott could recall; they try to press her for retirement about once every three years, but she was having none of it. Her ringing voice and jovial presence were as much part of the cafe as it was part of her, and it would not be the same if she had ever taken them up on their offer.

“Ta, Siw.” Elliott took their customary seat: the four-seater by the kitchen. It was Dai’s turn to bring the chess set, so he was content to sip his coffee and wait for Sîan to come in.

“Hiya, Siw.” Sîan inserted herself next to Elliott. “How’s it going?”

“Same as,” Siwan said, pouring Sîan’s cup. “Our Daf’s been on at me to take the new babies, as they’ve got their hands full with the girls as is, like.”

“You going to?” Sîan asked, sipping her cup.

Siwan laughed. “Oh, na; it’s his fault for having so many kids in the first place! He wants some time off, yeah, he needs to come down here and do something nice for his old mam!”

“You aren’t old, Siw,” Sîan said, smiling at her. The woman’s shrewd eyes immediately sharpened.

“What’s it you’re after, Sîan Caradog?”

Sîan beamed at her. “Cake?”

Siwan bustled back towards the counter, muttering about the cheek of youth nowadays; but, sure enough, a slice of cake appeared in front of Sîan, who called her thanks out across the caff (to a response of an eyeroll and a smile from Siwan). She smiles at Elliott over a mouthful of cake, crumbs caught in the corner of her mouth and

"Knight takes bishop. Sorry, Marcus, darling, but you really need to try harder."

Marcus scowls at the chessboard, smooth, polished chestnut warm against his fingertips from the sunlight streaming through the window. He thinks of just how _insufferably_ hot it is for spring and how Mother is forcing him to go to that _insufferable_ dinner tonight with some _insufferable_ people; and how there will undoubtedly be a lavishly-dressed unwed daughter amongst them that he will have to talk to. He cannot think at all about the chess game that he is losing terribly to Elizabeth.

The whole situation, especially considering that Elizabeth is a _woman_ and therefore should never be better than him at chess, is completely intolerable. He tells her as such.

Elizabeth, being Elizabeth and seemingly delighting in bettering Marcus at every opportunity, laughs at him, tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder so that it catches in the sunlight. Marcus always thought that her insatiable ability to be perfect was sheer, irritating natural talent, until he caught her practicing this very head toss in the polished glass in her room.

"Jealousy is an unattractive quality," she tells him.

"Good," he says. "Maybe all the eligible women in the vicinity will recognise it as well as you do, and leave me alone."

"The permanent bachelor," Elizabeth says, with a head tilt and smile that twitches the corners of her eyes. "How adorably quaint."

"I'll join the Church," Marcus declares.

"You'll still have to marry," Elizabeth reminds him. "Unless you plan on running away to the Continent and becoming a Catholic."

Marcus stops for a moment, considering this option. It does not seem all too incredible.

"Marcus," Elizabeth says, sternly. "You are _not_ running away to the Continent and becoming a Catholic. Father would have a fit, Mother would cry all the time, and I'd be left to run the entire household."

"You practically do that anyway," Marcus reminds her.

"True," Elizabeth agrees. "But it's not quite the same as _having_ to run the entire household."

"Just how, precisely, is it not the same; you would still be ordering the servants around and making sure that everyone was appropriately dressed for the season and the fashion-"

"Meaning you," Elizabeth interjects.

"Don't interrupt, Elizabeth; it is most unbecoming and unforgivably rude." Elizabeth breaks into peals of laughter at Marcus' uncanny impression of Father, and Marcus cannot help but join in. Elizabeth knocks his ankle with her toe under the table.

"Still waiting on your move, Master Benedict," she says. "Although you might be better off admitting defeat to my far superior strategic skills."

"Never," Marcus hisses at her through bared teeth, although his teeth are bared in a grin, so he has the impression that it does not really count as a threat. Which is unfortunate, because

"You haven't been taking your medication." Carys did not sound upset, or even angry – and Elliott preferred those emotions far more than the disappointment and gentle despair that seemed to be radiating off his daughter. It was never supposed to be this way; Carys is his child, his flesh and blood and still more Colletta than anyone ever really guessed when first meeting her, because she has Elliott's colouring (light skin, light eyes, blonde hair wispy-soft and daffodil-yellow and Elliott remembered when he first saw her, how he thought that she was something made purely of sunlight and smiles). But Carys cared in that indelible, impossible way that Colletta did, and she could made Elliott feel guilty for all of his failures like she was digging her fingernails into his heart. It was never supposed to be this way. Fathers were not supposed to shatter their daughters into shining, shimmering fragments, broken open and razor-sharp like a looking-glass.

"Why?" she asked, and the question was so loaded that Elliott had no idea how he was supposed to answer it. He was never good with words. Colletta had understood; she could talk freely about any subject under the sun, but she had understood that he did not know how to use words. She would take his hand and smile at him and simply _understand_. He still does not know how he deserved her.

His fingers curl in on his palm, clasping the phantom feel of her smaller hand in his.

"I'm sorry," he said, because he could not think of anything else to say. Apparently, it was the wrong thing, because Carys ran her hand through her hair, hand curling into a fist and pulling at the locks between her fingers, as if she could formulate control by stimulating pain in her scalp. Suddenly, she dropped into a crouch in front of Elliott, and took his hand in both of hers.

"Tad," she said, quietly, looking at him with worry and _fear_ in her huge, blue eyes. " _Please_."

He nodded, looking at his withered, wrinkled hand in hers. He could no longer feel Colletta.

"Oes," he said. "Mae'n ddrwg gennyf, Carys."

"I know, Tad," Carys said, and kissed his knuckles. "But you have to try to take your pills. The doctor says that they'll help."

 _But they don't_ , Elliott thought, but didn't say. _They make my soul numb and my head feel like it's pure, solid gravity and I can't think_.

"You don't want to have to have all these—" she paused, clearly at a loss as how to term them; _memories_ , Elliott supplied, because that is what they _were_. "Do you?"

 _Yes_ , Elliott thought, savagely, followed so swiftly that the thoughts overlapped in his mind with, _no_.

He shook his head. It seemed like the right thing to do.

 

Later, Siân was sitting with him. She had his pill bottle in her small, white hand. 

“Mam wants me to make sure you take these,” she said, not looking at the bottle or at the place where their hands were joined, her palm wrapped over his fingers; instead looking carefully and intently into his face, as if to read all of his secrets. Elliott wondered how much of her behaviour with him she learned from watching Colletta. “Do you want to take them, Baba?”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes. Siân, beauteous child that she was, understands.

“If you don’t take them,” she said, “and I tell Mam that you did, will you tell me of them? Your memories,” she added, as if Elliott might not remember. “You promised me you would, one day.”

 _And you might not have all that much time left_ she didn't say. Elliott understood. He was old, now, in this life, and Siân is, was, will always be, unrepentantly curious.

“Wrth cwrs,” he said. “But I’d best take the medicine anyway, bach. It wouldn’t do to upset your mam, now.”

The pills were plastic-coated but they still stuck going down. Siân helped him drink a full glass of water before settling back into the seat beside him, curled on one side, her cheek resting against the back of the chair. It was the position that she always used to adopt when she was being told a story; Elliott wondered if she knew that she did it still, or if it was an unconscious habit not yet broken from childhood. 

“I’m not sure where to start,” he admitted, after a moment.

“Try at the beginning,” Siân said. “That tends to be the best place.

Elliott smiled, ruefully. “Honestly, cariad, I wouldn’t be able to tell you when that was.” He shifted himself deeper into the cushions. “Okay,

how about this,” Andrew says, “you and all yourselves get up and out of my shop, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.” His fingers rest light on the hilt of his pistol, a promise and a threat. Several of their eyes drop to it, briefly. He smiles. 

“Mister Walker,” the leader says, stepping forward and smiling around a mouthful of brown teeth. “We was just looking for some trade with a like minded citizen, and were thinking to ourselves, ‘what better man to off this once in a lifetime deal to than our very own store keeper?’ I, myself, can’t think of one. Can any of you, boys?”

There is a murmur of disagreement from his gang, their spirits – momentarily unsettled by the pistol – now back in full force. 

“It will be once in a lifetime if you don’t shift yourselves,” Miss Jackson says, appearing from behind the curtain blocking view of the back room, rifle raised and ready at the leader’s head. “Mister Walker told y’all to leave, and now I’m asking you to kindly follow through on his request.”

The leader smiles his tobacco-stained smile. “That’s a mighty big gun for such a little lady as yourself, ma’am,” he says. “I’m hoping you know how to use it, or else there’s going to be an awful big mess for your man here to clean up.”

Miss Jackson raises an eyebrow, and doesn’t lower the gun. Her gaze is very steady. “He is not ‘my man’, sir,” she says.

“Is that right?” The smile does not go away. Andrew is watching the men at his back carefully not move, just as he is carefully not moving. He can feels the scales of this exchange teetering, wonders if he’ll be cleaning blood out of the floorboards or out of his shirt tonight. “Does that mean you’re available for courting?”

He does not mean courting. Miss Jackson is as aware of this as any of the men in the room. She does not lower the gun. A loose twist of hair, dark as her skin is pale, brushes against her cheek as her mouth curls in a smirk.

“I’d love to see you try courting anything,” she says, “with your face rearranged through the back of your skull.”

“Now,” says the man, “that’d be cold blooded murder, miss, and I’m hearing that that is frowned upon by such that is the law.”

Andrew smiles and doesn’t smile. It’s a threat in and of itself, and he sees the other men shift uncomfortably, feels the scales clink down in his favour.

“T’isn’t murder if it’s self defense,” he says. Miss Jackson’s smirk curls higher.

“One little woman against six strong men,” she says. “There’s no way the sheriff is seeing that for anything other.”

Tobacco teeth has stopped smiling. “This is the west, sweetheart,” he says. “No lawman is above being bought.”

The doorbell chimes.

“Is that so.”

It isn’t a question. Sheriff Samuels isn’t the kind of man to ask questions. His pistol is still in his holster, his hand resting easy at his side, and the star of office shines bright on his chest.

Andrew nods to him. “Morning, Sheriff.”

Samuels touches his hat to them. “Mister Walker,” he says. “Miss Jackson. There any trouble?”

“That depends,” Miss Jackson says, tilting her chin at the men, “on these gentlemen.”

The sheriff smiles, wide and easy. “Oh, I’m sure they were just leaving,” he says, and his eyes are are all iron and flint. “Ain’t that right, gentlemen?”

“Sure,” says tobacco teeth, his men already sidling out the door. His mouth flicks in a snarl. “Ma’am. Sirs.”

The sheriff watches him out, and then flicks an eyebrow at Andrew. “A lovely character of people you bring to town, Mister Walker.”

Andrew spreads his hands. “What can I say, Cam, I’m a man of the people.”

“Maybe try being less a man of those people,” Miss Jackson says, uncocking the rifle. 

“This is Utah, ma’am,” the sheriff says. “Those are most of the people we got.”

“Maybe you’d be happier back in Wisconsin,” Andrew says, smiling slow and teasing across the store at her. Miss Jackson purses her lips back, and tosses her hair.

Cam Samuels grins, and leans against the counter. “That’s quite a cousin you got there, Andrew,” he says. “She still marrying that boy she left behind?”

Andrew looks at him. “What do you think,” he says. “A woman like that travels a thousand miles away from a marriage contract to strengthen the bond?”

“Hey,” Cam says, “they says distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

“I can still hear you,” Miss Jackson says, her voice carrying sharp from the back room. “I’m still holding this rifle, you know.”

Cam wrinkles his nose at Andrew with a grin, and

Siân silenced him with a touch on the arm. Elliott blinked at her, confused for a moment in the swirl of memories who he was looking at; Siân touched a finger to her lips, and pointed to the light under the bedroom door. _Mam_ , she mouthed, and Elliott saw the shadows moving as Carys walked past, cat-quiet on slippered feet, out in the corridor. She didn’t approve of Siân chasing after Elliott’s stories, and definitely wouldn’t approve of the two of them talking late into the evening about a life Elliott remembered as a general store owner in the wilds of the American west.

His daughter called Siân’s flights of fancy _dangerous daydreams_ , but the doctors called Elliott’s _mental degradation_ , and Carys was very firm in her belief of medical opinion.

Elliott patted Siân’s knee. “Perhaps that’s enough for tonight,” he said. 

“Oh, but _Baba_ —” Siân said, her face falling. 

“Don't you _oh, Baba_ me, child,” he chided, gently. “I’m an old man, now, and I’m tired. Maybe another time, ie?”

Pouting, Siân clutched at his hand. “Tomorrow?” she asked, eyes hopeful.

“Maybe,” Elliott said, again, and held out his arms for her. “Now, help me up.”

“Am I in your memories, Tad-cu?” Siân asked, moving to grip his arms above the elbow and manoeuvre him to his feet. “Is that why you get me confused, sometimes?”

He smiled, and touched her dear face. “Always, cariad,” he said. “You’re always with me.” 

Siân’s smile lit up her face. “Who was I then?” she asked, “in Utah? Was I in that story?”

Elliott laughed. “Why do you always ask questions you already know the answers to?” he said. “Yes, bach, you were there.”

“Wait,” Siân said, her face crinkling as she looked at him in sudden horror. “I was Miss Jackson, right? Not the sheriff?”

“Cam Samuels is a great man,” Elliott said, sternly. “I’m proud to call him my friend.” At Siân’s continuing look of increasing discomfort, he grinned, suddenly. “But don’t worry, you were never a man.”

Obviously relieved, Siân helped him to stiffly walk around the room, and then stood facing the wall whilst he changed for bed. His fingers, old and tight with age, took too long with buttons. He barely recognised them, brown and wrinkled, picking at his shirt.

Siân took his arm again as he sank down onto his mattress, and kissed his cheek after turning out the light. “Was, Baba,” she said, her voice quiet and almost sad against his face. “Cam Samuels _was_ a great man.”

**Author's Note:**

> to avoid confusion:  
> arthur — elliott caradog, marcus, andrew walker  
> morgana — siân caradog, elizabeth, amanda jackson  
> morgause — carys caradog  
> gwaine — ioan caradog  
> leon — dai  
> lancelot — cameron samuels  
> gwen — colletta


End file.
